Summer Stock

by Vanessa North

  Trey winced. That would literally be the worst thing Ryan could do. “Dude. You can’t.”

  “I know. Especially now that Mason and I are finally getting along . . .” Ryan shrugged. “Maybe she can get a car service out to Banker’s Shoals. I don’t know.”

  “Why don’t I pick her up for you?”

  “You would do that?”

  “Sure. I don’t mind. And I get to talk her into spilling all your dirty secrets.”

  Ryan laughed. “She wouldn’t dare—we pinky swore on that shit.” Then his face grew serious. “Thank you so much, Trey. It means a lot to me that you would do that for me. And for her. She’s a really special person.”

  What would it take to get Ryan’s face to go soft like that when he mentioned Trey? “Anytime. Come on, let’s go cook some fish.”

  Ryan, it turned out, knew next to nothing about cooking, but was an enthusiastic assistant. He heated and cleaned the grill to Trey’s exacting specifications while Trey prepped the fish in a spicy citrus marinade. Together, they made a pico de gallo from the early tomatoes in Trey’s garden and the mango going soft on his countertop.

  “There should be a package of corn tortillas in the pantry, will you check?” Trey asked as he diced the onions for the pico.

  “Found it.” Ryan held them up.

  “Great, wrap ten of them in two aluminum foil packets—we’re going to heat them on the grill while the fish cooks. I’m afraid I don’t have red cabbage, but there’s some slaw mix in the vegetable drawer.”

  Ryan went digging and found the bag. “Got it.”

  “Is it any good?”

  “How do you tell?”

  “Are there brown spots on it? Liquid in the bag? Is it wilty and soft or crisp?”

  “Crisp, no liquid, no brown spots.”

  That was a relief. “Awesome, put half of that in a bowl and stir in the marinade that I didn’t put in with the fish.”

  “Yes, chef,” Ryan teased.

  “You got a Gordon Ramsay fetish I don’t know about?” Trey shot back, grinning.

  “Mmm, redheads.”

  Trey snapped a dishtowel at him, then looked around, taking stock of their feast. Pico de gallo and slaw for toppings. Corn tortillas and fresh grouper. Well, it would have to do. “I wish we had some avocado,” he fretted.

  “Too early in the season.” Ryan made a face. “And there’s nothing worse than bruised avocados shipped from god-only-knows-where. Trust me, I’m from California.” His easygoing cackle filled Trey’s kitchen and made Trey’s heart twist and flop in his chest. He never could have imagined weeks ago that the laugh that had drawn his attention in Kim’s bar would come to mean so much, or sound so good here in his home.

  “Oh my god, you are such a dork,” Trey teased, desperate to cover his sudden sentimentality with more laughter.

  “Don’t tell the tabloids,” Ryan stage-whispered, then leaned in for a kiss, which Trey was all too happy to give him. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t meant to shove Ryan up against the counter with such force they knocked the bowl of vegetable scraps for compost to the floor, and maybe he hadn’t meant to carry Ryan back to the bedroom and blow him until he cried out Trey’s name breathlessly and tugged his hair.

  So what if the grouper marinated a little extra long while Ryan blew him right back, smiles in his eyes and the devil in his tongue?

  By the time the fish went on the grill, they were both starving and sated, and they couldn’t stop giggling at each other when their eyes met. Trey couldn’t remember ever laughing like this with a lover before, and it felt so damned good it physically hurt.

  “Oh my gaaah,” Ryan sighed around the first bite of his taco. “Okay, dude, I lived in California for years and never had a fish taco that tasted like this. Did you put crack in it?”

  “Nah. I put lu-uh-uuuhve in it.” Trey waggled an eyebrow.

  “That can’t be it, I totally rinsed my mouth in between.” Ryan smirked back, and they both started laughing again.

  “You have the sense of humor of a twelve-year-old,” Trey said when he could speak.

  “You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

  But that wasn’t true—at this point, he’d take Ryan any which way he could get him—whether that meant laughing, silly, twelve-year-old-sense-of-humor Ryan, or the serious, careful Ryan who had driven him home from the bonfire and offered to get a cleaning service to purge his garage.

  He was falling head over heels for both Ryans—and he only hoped he would be able to let them go at the end of the summer without a big empty Ryan-shaped hole taking over his heart.

  The two weeks leading up to tech week passed in a blur of rehearsals, meals grabbed on the go, and late-night visits or calls to Trey. Mind-blowing sex followed by hours of talking about everything that mattered to them and some things that didn’t. Trey told Ryan that his name was actually Patrick Donovan III, but that no one ever called him Patrick; Ryan confessed that having two names—a personal one and a professional one—sometimes made him feel like he lived two separate lives. When Ryan talked about growing up a willful only child, Trey described being the only boy in a family full of outspoken women—including his three sisters, one of whom had moved to Banker’s Shoals while he was recovering from his injuries in the hospital. Ryan was used to creating small, intense, and transitory families on set and on stage. Something about his connection with Trey—though every bit as ephemeral—struck some deep place in his psyche he hadn’t known was crying out to be loved. Trey seemed to hunger for a lightness that Ryan found easy to give—and Trey gave him back depths he didn’t recognize in himself until Trey pointed them out.

  Whenever he could, Ryan got up early to run—and “run into” Trey and Ferdinand on the beach. The weather was growing hotter and tourists were starting to pour into Banker’s Shoals in a steady stream. Ryan was beginning to be recognized—and photographed—regularly, so his morning runs were often cut short to sign an autograph or pose for a selfie. He didn’t mind—he loved the little bit of fan service he could give—but he was starting to crave alone time with Trey, and time was the one thing he was now running low on. With the sets mostly constructed and painted, Trey was rarely at the theater. On the bright side, Ryan’s face—and other body parts—had remained absent from the pages of the Herald. Maybe his paparazzi stalker had given up.

  On the Thursday before tech week, he texted Trey: My last free weekend—wanna go somewhere?

  Trey’s reply was a surprise. Camping.

  Ryan had never dialed a phone so fast in his life.

  “Yes, I said camping,” Trey answered.

  “You mean, like, tents and no showers and stinky buttholes, because that’s not what I had in mind.”

  “Not exactly. Have you ever been camping before?”

  “Once, with my Cub Scout troop when I was a kid. It was a memorable—if not pleasant—experience.” Ryan shuddered. Ryan hadn’t been scouting material; he’d been a little too afraid of the dark and a lot too mouthy to the authority figures.

  “Can you give me access to West’s backyard for a few hours tomorrow?”

  “We’re backyard camping? Like little kids?”

  “Consider it glamping. Your girl Ali would approve.”

  Somehow, Ryan doubted that.

  “Okay, show up before I leave for rehearsal tomorrow, and I’ll give you the codes to the security system. I’m not sure about this glamping stuff, but it’s our last weekend together; I’m going to trust you.”

  “All I’ve ever wanted,” Trey teased. “Am I gonna see you tonight?”

  Ryan sighed. “I wish. Rehearsal for Much Ado is probably going to run late. You know Zach Evers?”

  “I tiled his kitchen backsplash.”

  “He’s our Benedick understudy, and David got salmonella poisoning two nights ago, so they’ve got him down at OBH in Nags Head until he stops puking blood and the health department can pinpoint where he got it and notify the public.”

  “Poor Dav
id.”

  “Right? I’ve never seen a man’s skin turn that shade of green. I thought he had appendicitis or kidney stones or something before he started butchin’ it.”

  “Oh, gross. So, Zach is fumbling through a full rehearsal in role?”

  “Well, he’s doing all right if today was any indication. He’s got excellent timing—but you know Mason.”

  “Yeah, I know Mason.”

  “So unless Dave miraculously recovers and makes the drive up highway twelve in record time, it’s going to be a late night.”

  “How is Zach in the role?”

  “Not as bad or as good as some of the other choices. I would play it differently, but that’s the beauty of live theater. No two actors approach a role the same.”

  “You really don’t mind not playing the lead?”

  “Why would I mind? Don Pedro is an excellent role. So much meat to chew there. He’s in the middle of all the matchmaking plots and schemes. Not to mention, he’s the man everyone turns to for wisdom.”

  “I guess I don’t understand how someone ambitious enough to move across the country to be a movie star is perfectly happy letting someone else lead the show.”

  Ryan smiled, even though Trey couldn’t see it, because the common misunderstanding opened up an opportunity to geek out about his passion. “It’s not a lack of ambition—it’s . . . it’s respect for the craft. Each role is important, or it wouldn’t be there—I’m an actor, not an ego. I have as much respect for the role of Dogberry as I do for Don Pedro—more because Dogberry requires impeccable comic timing and a flair for slapstick, which is harder than it looks.”

  Trey’s low laugh filled the line. “I get it. Picking an actor for a role is like picking a piece of wood for carpentry. Most of the world will never see the sides of the drawers, but it’s worth picking the best piece you can so it will slide smoothly. Any art worth doing is worth doing beautifully.”

  Yeah. Trey did get him.

  “That’s a perfect analogy. Shit, as much as I’d love to talk your ear off about theater all day, I’ve got to get going. Mason wants me back at rehearsal at one. You’re coming over in the morning?”

  “Yes. Call me tonight, even if it’s late. I sleep better after hearing your voice these days.”

  Ryan’s heart fluttered in his chest. That was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him.

  “I will. Talk to you later.”

  “Later.”

  Ryan buzzed Trey through the gate just after six. Trey had been hoping to get to spend a little bit of time together, but Ryan was already on his way out to rehearsal. He stopped in the driveway for a long, leisurely kiss up against the side of Trey’s pickup truck though, and Trey was all too happy to indulge him. Trey shoved a hand into Ryan’s hair and pressed the length of their bodies together, rutting against him until they were both hard. He slid his other hand under Ryan’s shirt, twisting and teasing at a nipple until Ryan let out a soft whimper of pleasure.

  Cupping Ryan low, he whispered, “Too bad you have to go to rehearsal. Me, I got nothing but time. Maybe I’ll set up our camping experience and then edge myself all day until you get home.”

  “You fucking bastard.” Ryan groaned. “This is so unfair.”

  “Awww, but I’ll be thinking of you. Thinking about the way you laugh, and those hot noises you make when you come. Mmm. And now I bet you’ll be thinking about them all day too.”

  “I hate you.” Ryan leaned forward and bit Trey’s lower lip. “At least take a video for me if you do.”

  Trey laughed against Ryan’s lips as they kissed again, then he let go of the fistful of hair he was still clutching. “Go on, get to rehearsal. Miss me.”

  “I fucking will.” Ryan climbed back into the Volvo, extended his middle finger out the window, and started to drive away.

  “I’ll miss you too!” Trey called after him, grinning so hard he thought it would split his face. As soon as the gate closed behind Ryan, Trey let Ferdy out of the truck, grabbed his equipment, and got to work. Setting the campsite up by himself would take some time, and everything had to be perfect when Ryan got back at the end of the day. For the next six weeks, Ryan would be performing almost every night as well as every Sunday afternoon, so this really was their last free weekend together, and Trey wanted to make it memorable.

  Ryan was on his way out of the theater when Annsley stopped him with a hand on his arm. He tried not to snap as he turned around—he needed to get to Trey, and rehearsal had run late.

  “Hey, Ann, what’s up?”

  She didn’t let go of his arm. “Are you coming to the party tonight?”

  He groaned inwardly.” Another one?”

  “When did you get so antisocial?”

  Gently moving her hand, he put on his most charming smile. “I’m not being antisocial. I’ve just got other plans. I’ve been seeing somebody, and this is our last chance to spend a weekend together before performances start.”

  Her eyes got wide. “Who? I thought you were dating Ali Parker.”

  “A townie. And no, Ali was my roommate in LA.”

  “A townie, huh? Someone from the play—someone on the crew? Oooh, is it Viki?”

  “No, it’s not Viki, and I’m not playing twenty questions. I’m going to go spend the weekend with my lover, and I’ll see you Monday at tech.”

  “You’re no fun!” she called after him.

  “I am well aware!”

  Though, he hoped Trey would disagree with her assessment. Because whatever Trey had planned for Ryan promised to be something he’d never forget, especially if that kiss in the driveway was any indication of what was in store for him.

  Goddamn it, that had been hot. As he drove home, Ryan let himself remember Trey’s fist clutching his hair as they’d kissed, the hard body pinning him against the side of the truck. Heat flashed through his body, and his dick stiffened in his jeans. Maybe it would be best if they could skip dinner and move straight to whatever glamping was.

  The short drive across the island had never seemed to take so long before. And then once he arrived—had West’s driveway gate always been this slow? It was taking forever to open. When it finally stopped, he pulled forward and up the drive. Trey’s truck was still where he’d left it that morning, but Trey and Ferdy were nowhere to be seen. Damn.

  Ryan parked next to the Ferrari, closed the garage door, and made his way inside. “Hello? Trey?”

  No answer.

  Dropping his keys in the bowl in the mudroom, he continued into the kitchen. No Trey. But a handwritten note, propped on a sweating bottle of prosecco, had his name in Trey’s blocky script.

  Ry,

  I noticed you haven’t been drinking lately. If you want to, bring this down to the backyard with you. If not, no worries. I have other refreshments waiting. Go take a shower and put on something comfortable.

  Trey

  Go take a shower. Well, all right, then.

  Ryan bypassed the guest bathroom he usually used and made his way to West’s gorgeous master bath. Slate tile and cedar paneling gave the room a rustic, masculine elegance he loved, and a giant copper bathtub was gathering patina in a corner. Ryan skipped the tub and headed straight for the glass-enclosed shower with its half-dozen sprayers and overhead rain spout. He massaged sandalwood soap into his tired muscles and let the hot water soothe him and loosen his limbs. He was still hard, but he tried to ignore that as much as possible, cleaning himself with the lightest touch. Since there was a good chance Trey would top the hell out of him tonight, he paid extra attention to his ass, enjoying the butterflies of anticipation that preparing himself for his lover stirred.

  Oh god.

  He dried himself with a decadently fluffy towel and considered the rest of Trey’s note as he made his way back to the guest room. “Put on something comfortable.” Pulling on a pair of briefs, he weighed his options. He could go out in his underwear, true. But the mosquitoes would probably have him covered in welts by the time he
got down the steps to the backyard.

  He ended up wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants that were so old they were worn soft and had fraying hems, and an equally ancient long-sleeved raglan.

  When he reached the kitchen, he stared at the bottle of prosecco. He hadn’t officially quit drinking or anything like that. But he hadn’t had a drink in a few weeks, so maybe he should just skip the wine? But would that be making some kind of statement? He’d been the party guy for so long, he wasn’t sure who he was without that identity. But if he quit drinking because he was scared of losing control, did that mean he was an alcoholic? Or just scared of being one? And did it matter if the end result was the same? He wasn’t sure he even knew what drinking in moderation was anymore. Less than the guy next to you but more than the girl next to him didn’t seem like the best metric, no matter how well it had worked in the past.

  He left the bottle of prosecco on the counter, and stepped outside, into another world.

  Trey had hung lanterns on the path leading down to the beach access, but before they got to the gate, there was a huge round tent and a portable fireplace off to one side. And . . . was that music? Trey was sitting on a lawn chair by the fire in red shorts and a plaid button-down, but he stood as Ryan approached.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi. This is—this is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you. Wait until you see inside the yurt.”

  “Yurt?”

  Trey gestured at the tent. “Yurt.”

  Cool. Ryan had never heard of a yurt before, but this thing was impressive. He followed as Trey pushed the mosquito netting away from the door and when he saw the inside, his jaw dropped. Holy shit there were hardwood floors and a bed—and the music he’d heard outside was playing through speakers hung on the rafters.

  “This is— How did you do this in one day?”

  Trey laughed. “It’s totally portable. The bed is an air mattress on a platform. The floor rolls up. The speakers are a Bluetooth worksite system. I built it a few years ago—maybe I needed a blanket fort. Maybe I just needed something to do with my hands. It’s special to me. And I wanted to share it with you.”